


The MindFire (illustrated)

by EKthered



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, The Fade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 18:19:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3619611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EKthered/pseuds/EKthered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bull was obsessed with dragons now more than ever. He’d found a map in the Hissing Wastes, fumbling around a charred body Vivienne had nuked straight to hell one frozen desert night. It had writings the Qunari couldn’t resist - “Ancient.” “Dragon.” “Undefeated.” “Treasure.”</p>
<p>It goes quite badly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The MindFire (illustrated)

Bull was obsessed with dragons. 

Obsessed. 

It wasn’t something about his character that really came to light until after he’d become Tal Vashoth. Before, it was fun for him. A challenge. But now - oh, Maker. Every conversation, every drunken night. It was driving them mad, a little.

He’d found a map in the Hissing Wastes, fumbling around a charred body Vivienne had nuked straight to hell one frozen desert night. It had writings the Qunari couldn’t resist - “Ancient.” “Dragon.” “Undefeated.” “ _Treasure_.”

"We gotta go, boss. It’s practically just south of SkyHold! We need the loot, we need the power to go up against Corypheus soon. A day trip, of _wonders._ ”

You’d had the presence of mind to mention this to Solas. He’d told you about Skyhold, maybe he’d know what the damn thing was.

He’d sipped his coffee quietly as you mumbled the mission, soup mustaching your face (baked potato and mince cheese was the best.) He watched you, old eyes masked.

"It’s got strengths you’ve never seen, Inquisitor. It is… unique. Ancient. And I don’t believe it’s weak to any magic I’ve heard of, thus it’s survival. I would… advise against it, but as you have a tendency to be otherwise convinced by your team mates…" he sipped again. 

"You think it’s worth it?" you finish, satisfied as you set the wooden bowl down with a gentle thunk and cross your spoon, respectful of Solas in his space. "To find more power to fight Corypheus?"

"I think parts of your mission will be worth it. It’s always good to be tested… and reminded of our status in this world. This dragon is very… old." 

______

 

 

The cave was ancient and smelled like the battle of snow runoff and time, stone old as Thedas itself carved away by the steady passage of days and nights. Dorian’s Valefire cast the dripping rock in eery light. 

Bull found the dragon, of course. He practically vibrated with excitement, his high tier gear blurring as he charged the creature. At first, all they saw were the two glowing emerald eyes, but then the rest of it glowed to life like some kind of deep mushroom and you swallow, a little concerned. You’ve never seen a creature like this. 

Fire magic didn’t hurt it, ice magic didn’t hurt it, NECROmancy (which makes you so fucking uncomfortable by the way) didn’t hurt it. By the time you realize it’s only damn weakness is spirit magic, and that you’re woefully underequipped in that school, it’s battered you so roughly you think your body is a mass of charted bruises beneath your armor. Dorian has SOME spirit expertise, something he’d called “A beautiful juxtaposition” during one of your chess matches, and he’s doing what he can when this - this whine - you wince, shaking your head. It’s like an angry rat, amplified by a thousand folds - the others, the hear it too, blinking and pawing at their ears.

Bull is stunned, standing right beneath the beast, apparently unaware of the massive paw coming down to end his brief life. You hear a scream part your lips and you charge without really thinking, slamming him to the ground. It misses, but it turns it’s gaze on you, fierce, old, intelligent. _Pissed the hell off._ It opens it’s mouth and you expect fire, you expect death - 

Your eyes burn bright, a white supernova exploding across your vision and your ears seem to rupture from the inside and then, you hear nothing at all.

______

 

 

The grass is soft and it tickles your bare feet. It’s a childhood feeling, the giddiness of it and you wiggle your toes, enjoying it. The sun is warm and bright and you sigh, soaking in it’s warmth.

And you blink, and you remember being in the dark. 

"Am I dead?" you ask.

"No, thankfully," Solas responds, wringing his hands. His bare toes didn’t move in the grass, no enjoyment. 

"The fade?"

"I had to - it’s -" he sighs, displaying a disturbing amount of emotion as he rakes his hand down his face. "You were injured."

"My friend, I was /dead/. Lights _out._ Brains fried, I’d like the following to be sung at my funeral -“

"It is the mindfire," he whispered, blinking into the sunlight. "I didn’t know if it was real, but it was written of long ago. The creature renders pray blind and deaf for a time, so it can enjoy it’s meals."

"Blind and deaf?"

"When you wake, it will be dark and your head will be afire and you will not be able to see. But, you will wake, and it will recede, in time," he tells you, not looking at you. His posture was, defeated. Your eyes narrow. 

"You _knew,_ but you wanted to teach a lesson.” Realization dawns. “The lesson was for _Bull,_ who yes I agree has been insufferable, but you knew!”

The elf grunted, his fingers twisting like tree roots, but didn’t deny it.

You make a frustrated noise and palm your face. “You could - just - _talk to him_ , you know, instead of making everything out to be a _demon-dammed_ riddle!”

He looked down, and the words were so quiet you almost didn’t catch them. “Talking about how I feel… has never been my strong suit, even after all this time, I guess.” He looked back at you. “I am so sorry. I didn’t think it would be you.”

You make a helpless motion. “What can I say? We all have the opportunity to learn as long as we’re alive, no matter _how old and grumpy you act like,_ elf grandpa. Let it be YOUR lesson - next time. You can’t always control everything, my friend.”

______

 

 

It hurt. Like hell. 

Dripping molten lava, oozing through parts of your head you didn’t, shouldn’t normally feel. You don’t think you’re awake at first - no sight, not bright but not dark, just… nothingness. And no sound. The absence of sound. 

Are you dead? You might be dead after all. A passing dream of a summer’s day with a sad little elf man. Fuck. _Fuck._ Being dead _hurts._

You flail, and realized perhaps not dead, but not ok. Under blankets, trapped like a spider’s web. You feel the fabrics - body-warmed, soft. Sharp contrast to the current monstrosity that is the thundering of your head. You need - you need something - 

A cool cloth is placed on your brow and you moan, well, you feel yourself moan, you can’t hear it, your throat vibrating with your relief. Hands, there are hands touching you - more - more than a person, how many? Where _are you_? You flinch - _who are you?_ Are you safe?

A strong, callused hand takes one of yours, restraining you and you feel panic well deep in your guts, knotting, churning -

The hand is gentle and lifts yours and you touch, you feel - a face. It’s having you touch - a face? The skin is smoother than the hand, and you feel soft, downy hair, fluffed like down feathers - a braid -

Cassandra. This person is _Cassandra._ You go limp with relief. A friend.

The hand moves again and your palm is laid upon a tickling, bristling thing - and lips! You jerk back and the lips curve into a smile, maybe a laugh you can’t hear. A curving well groomed bar of a mustache - _Dorian._

The hand moves yours once again, and your fingers are brought to another face, touched with the coarse beginnings of a beard and a scar that splits the skin, a lip, like the chasms of the hissing wastes. _Cullen.  
_

You sag, hurting and tired and wounded. A wall of warmth and hard but yet soft comes up beside you, smelling of woodsmoke and metal oil and soap, and while you can’t hear it, you can feel the steady thump thump of a heart. Another disembodied hand strokes your arm - another your brow, tendrils of magic re-chilling the cloth. 

Another hand - this one much, much larger, in yours - nicked with scars, but trembling. It brings you to what you assume is his or her face - an eye patch, and wetness around the working one. You squeeze his hand.

_Not dead._ Lessons learned.


End file.
